Page 8 of Graves

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Koh

This is the end. I’m sure of it.

Nothing good can come from Aran Graves sitting here on my—no, on his couch, staring holes through me with that icy look. He watches me like a predator sizing up prey. My pulse is racing in double, maybe triple time.

This isn’t my living room. It’s his.

His couch. In his apartment.

I’m perched on the brown leather armchair, swallowing hard.

Yeah. The situation is crystal clear. I’m the stupid rabbit that wandered straight into the lion’s den—entirely clueless, of course.

For almost a year, I’ve been taking care of this place, living rent-free in a six-room apartment in the West Village. Close enough to Astoria to stay in touch with my family, far enough away from my own shit.

I’ve been using Aran’s shower, Aran’s kitchen, Aran’s living room, and Aran’s terrace. Eating off his plates, using his silverware, drinking my morning coffee out of his white I LOVE NYC mug.

If I’d had even the slightest clue whose apartment I was going to house-sit, I would’ve turned around at the doorstep.

Just the sight of him drags up everything I’ve been trying to forget.

He sits there like a statue, forearms resting on his thighs, picking at his thumb. He is ghostly pale, like he hasn’t seen sunlight in years. His dark brown hair sticks out in every direction—the kind of messy style other punk rockers probably spend hours in front of the mirror trying to recreate.

He doesn’t look bad in those tight black jeans, Converse, and the leather jacket over a fitted black shirt. At first, I thought he was wearing fingerless gloves, but it’s just his tattoos stretching all the way across the backs of his hands.

When he finally breaks out of his stillness and drags a palm over his mouth, the mask of the untouchable, I-don’t-give-a-fuck rockstar slips for a second.

Seeing that the situation unsettles him eases some of my tension. He still carries the aura of the biggest punk-rockstar of the last decade, but he also seems… lost. Out of place on that couch in this admittedly amazing apartment.

But why the hell does he keep staring at me like that?

Prison changes a person.

Would I have ended up the same?

“All right,” Brandon Fox says.

He was originally a patient in my dental practice. A year ago, he mentioned he was moving out of Astoria. When I told him I was looking for a cheap place to live, he offered to let me house-sit the apartment.

Now it turns out Brandon Fox is Aran Graves’ bodyguard.

He hands both Aran and me a glass of water, then remains standing across the wooden coffee table that separates us.

In his black suit and short light-brown hair, Brandon Fox looks every bit the authority figure. The guy in his mid-thirties wears a wedding ring and, from what I know, has two little girls at home.

He raises his hands like he’s at a podium and waits until we have his undivided attention.

“I want to clear the air right away. Aran, this is Kohaku Komura—my dentist.”

“Koh,” I correct him.

“He’s been your house sitter and has taken excellent care of the place for the last twelve months. Koh, this is Aran Graves. The owner of the apartment.”

I shoot Fox a death glare. He could’ve fucking told me whose place this was and who he really worked for.

“We can all agree this situation is a bit overwhelming for everyone,” Fox continues diplomatically.